


Five dollars' a bit overpriced

by pandibicth



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fuck John, Humor, Hunter Castiel (Supernatural), M/M, No Incest, No Smut, Openly Bisexual Dean Winchester, POV Alternating, Pansexual Sam Winchester, Psychic Abilities, Psychic Dean Winchester, Role Reversal, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow To Update, Unreliable Narrator, We Die Like Men, because he would, because i decided, good sibling relationship, i dont know what im doing, i hate john dont speak to me, im a hoe for sabriel btw so maybe sabriel, im gay dont come at me if i make typos, im texperimenting, in this au i actually killed john like when they were kids, not like fuck fuck him but FUCK him yknow, notw beta read, psychic!dean is so cool, theyre swearing a lot btw because their censored curses are frustating, theyre younger btw deans probably 25 or smth, we're making it up as we go, weird writing, well im trying
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-10-23 15:58:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17686562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pandibicth/pseuds/pandibicth
Summary: Dean is a psychic, the real kind, not the kind who wears necklaces and he hates working with hunters, especially when they have blue eyes and are constantly projecting annoyance - yes that's you i'm talking about, Cas.I SUCK AT SUMMARIES SO BAD and i cant tag properly i'm on my phone but read it i think its good





	Five dollars' a bit overpriced

**Author's Note:**

> waddup im trying to write a multi chapters fic but dont expect too much man im really inconsistent  
> also i have kind of experimented with my writing style so it might be weird ? idk man  
> also i wrote it on my phone sorry if the format is fucked up

“You're cheating on her, she's cheating on you, at least you have something in common ! Maybe you can bond over that when your divorce is finalized.” Dean adds, indifferent to the look of disbelief in the couple's face. “NEXT !”, he yells, throwing them the address of a lawyer while they're hastily getting out of the tent. 

Dean is a psychic. A real psychic, not the douchey kind who wears necklaces and tells you that you are hesitating between two things and you should go with your guts. He can read superficial thoughts, feel strong emotions, pick up energies, sometimes perform séances if the price is right, because they're a pain in the ass most of the time. He works with hunters, but never for too long because they're all fucking dicks, and it's really not what pays the bills. So he decided that he would put his gift to use to make money. He couldn’t actually read the future, but he could see pretty much what was bothering someone and give them advice about it.

He had a steady number of clients, despite the idea that it was a very uncertain job. You would be impressed by the number of people thinking that his attraction is a scam but going in anyway. Doing that job really helped him study human behavior. Well, it would have if he actually gave a shit about that kind of thing. He had a really disparate crowd: Business men strangled in their hard collars, longing for a bonus, posh middle-aged ladies, despaired to know if their husband is cheating on them, weird goth kids either firmly believing in him or completely offended by his scam. And of course, the Science Geniuses™, desperate to prove to themselves that fortune telling isn’t a thing. Half of his money came from them. “God bless skeptics,” Dean mumbled to no one in particular, raising his glass of whiskey in an awkward toast. Most people would tell you that drinking on the job wasn’t a good idea, but there was only so much cheating husbands and shitty jobs a guy could hear about in such a short span of time before going crazy. He was careful to not drink too much though, because it threw him off and he couldn’t be sure which thoughts and memories were his and which were the person in front of him. 

He was getting a bit tipsy though, because he read the papers and there was some weird ghost stuff happening a few dozen miles from Lebanon and he was pretty sure a hunter would come in sooner or later to require his help, and hunters were at least 29% less obnoxious when he had a few drinks in him. But it better not be that stingy bastard Uriel again, because he would rather shoot himself point blank in the face than work with him again. Guy was a disgusting piece of human garbage, and he sincerely hoped that he would get his head bitten off by a werewolf, who would do humanity a solid by removing his sickenly smug face from the surface of the damn Earth.

“I know it’s for the greater good”, he said to no one in particular, who seemed unimpressed by his fervent rage. He gave up trying to explain why he hated Uriel to the empty tent and instead focused on angrily muttering about homicidal bastards incapable of keeping it in their pants, whatever that meant.

“Who the fuck are you talking to ?”, asked Sam's ugly head, appearing in the opening of the tent, blue ink smeared across his right cheek. Dean didn't know why he insisted on writing with a fountain pen, but at least he could see when Sam had done his homework, the nerdy bastard. “No one in particular”, he responded “I'm going crazy here dude, when are we finished ?” 

Sam raised one of his eyebrows, specifically to annoy Dean because he knew damn well that he couldn't do it. “We’re leaving when we have enough money to eat this week so most likely, not very soon, man.” Dean sighed very dramatically, which was pretty unnecessary if you asked Sam, but no one was asking him and Dean decided that it was important to express his annoyance in a very loud way at the idea of staying in this small tent a minute longer.

It wasn't that he didn't like the tent. Actually, he loved the tent. In fact, Sam insisted that it was creepy and that he shouldn't call her Baby and that he should stop muttering to her that Sam doesn't mean what he's saying WHEN I'M RIGHT HERE, DEAN !  
It was an okay tent according to Sam (but he has shit taste anyway, Baby) and a thing of beauty according to Dean. She was all black and always smelled inexplicably kind of like old leather and tangerines (Sam insisted it was oranges), which was a weird combination, but at least it wasn't fucking enscent. She was really old, at least 50 years, and kind of annoying to pitch, but impossible to call ratty or shabby and she offered him and his brother a shelter when they didn't have a place to sleep, and he would never give her away. 

“By the way, you got a client. Please tell me what's he in for, 'cause he's like, impossible to read.” Sam disappeared, singing some kind of Lady Gaga song (Dean knew damn well that it was Poker Face) and Dean changed position, because he was starting to lose sensation in his legs. He distractedly registered Sam's voice telling the customer to enter.

“If you ask me,” a gravelly voice said, “five dollars is a bit overpriced for a consultation with a psychic.” 

“Well no one's asking you.”, Dean replied automatically, distracted by the muted pain of the blood rushing back in his legs.  
He raised his head to see the face who came with that voice and immediately winced.

“Damn man, the hell happened to your arm ? It's fucking painful”, he muttered, rubbing the spot in the back of his bicep. The guy (who was attractive in a weird way, in a "i haven't slept in a week and i never learned to shave properly" way, you know ?) didn't even seem weirded out by the comment. 

“Encounter with a ghost. I'm a hunter and-”

“Alright, let me stop you right there.” Dean poured himself another glass of whiskey, and rubbed his eyes. This was going to be a long day.

**Author's Note:**

> i got a twitter @pandibicth and a tumblr @augusteelpd im usually kind of funny and i love meeting new people hmu i need to talk about supernatural  
> omg i typed bicem instead of bicep this is why ppl need beta readers


End file.
